Read Online Ivy Lane: Spring: by Cathy Bramley - Free Book Online Page B

of the allotment. I’d never really been up here and I could see Alf sitting on a chair scraping mud off a trowel.
    ‘Roasted.’ Alf’s answer when I asked for shallot tips. ‘Like garlic, in whole with the meat. Delicious.’
    Not exactly what I had in mind, but he did offer me some produce in exchange for a flapjack. The sun was warm for March, so I slipped off my gilet and counted my blessings. Where else could you get lungfuls of fresh air, friendly banter and a free armful of curly kale on a Friday morning?
    I skipped merrily back to plot 16B with my complimentary greens, resigned to planting my own shallots. It was like the story of the little red hen. Except that the analogy didn’t really work because I couldn’t, in all honesty, see a hoard of people queuing up to get their hands on my shallots in summer.
    There were a few weeds beginning to creep up on my path and I decided to deal with them first before getting stuck into planting. Very carefully, I sprayed each one with weedkiller, taking my time to ensure I didn’t spray anything important. There was no breeze, so the spray shouldn’t have drifted down to anyone else’s plot, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
    The shallot was an odd crop to grow; it hardly seemed worth it, I thought, running my hands through the small brown bulbs in my shed a few minutes later. Why not simply eat them now? I was pretty sure that when I came to harvest them they would look exactly the same as they did now. I did a bit of raking to show willing and started pushing them part way into the ground. I hadn’t been planting long when I sensed Gemma’s presence behind me.
    ‘You could offer to help, you know,’ I said, without turning round.
    ‘I would, obvs, but I’ve got to give a full body massage this afternoon and I need to conserve my energy. Ask Colin.’
    ‘No thanks. Not if it means handling his privates.’
    Gemma giggled and I turned round to waggle my eyebrows at her.
    ‘Offer him something else.’
    ‘Like help him make an Easter card for his mum?’ I tutted. A teacher’s services might not be quite as useful as a beautician’s to a glamour model. It wasn’t as if I even had a cane he could borrow. I shook my head to banish the image of a young, smooth-skinned Colin draped over a desk and wielding a whip.
    ‘You never know,’ she said and then squealed. ‘Look, Tills!’ She was pointing at my carrot bed.
    I would have to have a word with her about that. Trust Gemma to make a nickname from my nickname. Rolling my eyes, I stood up to see what she had found.
    I clapped an oniony hand over my mouth and gasped.
    Gemma put an arm round my waist and gave me a squeeze. ‘Well done, babe.’
    ‘How’s that for beginner’s luck!’ I don’t think my smile could have been any wider.
    I’d done it! My carrot seeds had actually started to sprout. I had planted seeds and they were coming up to greet me. It was only a few seeds, a few spiky shoots appearing above ground, it wasn’t as if I’d invented a time machine or won the lottery or found a cure for bad breath (my pet hate). But at that moment my happiness knew no bounds; I felt so proud of my achievement.
    If I compared myself to this time last year, well, there simply was no comparison. I stared down at the bright green carrot tops and felt my eyes blur with tears.
    It was really happening, plot 16B was coming back to life. And as I returned Gemma’s hug, it occurred to me that perhaps I was too.

Chapter 9
    As soon as my work at the allotment was done I’d dashed off to the train station.
    I had a lovely time in Harrogate with Mum; we weren’t close like Gemma and her parents but that didn’t mean we didn’t enjoy each other’s company once in a while. We browsed for hours in the shops on Montpellier Hill (she bought lacy knickers, which I chose not to question, and I bought a scarf from Oxfam), had an indulgent afternoon tea in Betty’s Tea Rooms and spent the evening in companionable